


Blue

by stardropdream



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Clothing Kink, Domestic, Episode Related, M/M, Non-Explicit Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-08
Updated: 2016-06-08
Packaged: 2018-07-13 22:35:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7140353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardropdream/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Returning home to Paris means some adjustments. But some things fall back into place, too. (Coda fic for 3x01)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blue

**Author's Note:**

> Originally, JL gave me the prompt "Aramis wearing that damn pretty blue shirt of Porthos's" and it somehow spiraled into "portamis are domestic af" (or at least, domestic for them cause lbr) 
> 
> This is marked as a 3x01 coda fic but that's mostly so people can avoid spoilers. I anticipate this takes place between 3x01 to 3x04, but it's all very vague so you can read it with no understanding of later eps.

He meant it, what he said to Athos in the monastery before they’d headed back to Paris – that he hadn’t felt closer to God until their return, until fighting away bandits, rolling down a hill after an explosion, Porthos’ laughter in his ear – a sound he hasn’t heard in years. He meant it. He still means it. 

He means it still now, as he reaches out to Porthos, undoes the clasp of his armor. He’s never touched this armor before but he’s grateful that Porthos stays still, lets him come in closer. It’s straight-forward enough, a few buckles here and there, dragging the heavy metal off of him. That same coat he still remembers, dusty and worn now. There are holes at the seams. He’ll need to replace it. The shirt beneath is even rattier, torn at the collar, what might have once been lace but has now frayed enough to be unrecognizable. 

Porthos keeps his eyes lowered as Aramis helps ease the coat off of him. He find it a little difficult to breathe, his body thrumming with an expectation, with an understanding – this is the first time, in so many years, that he has touched Porthos, that they have been this close. And this time, Porthos is not turning away from him. There is a tension to his shoulders, but it eases slightly as Aramis turns and drapes the old coat over the back of a chair and then turns back into his space. His hands lift, press to Porthos’ chest. Feels the steady rise and fall of his breath, the beat of his heart. Porthos seems calm, but the stutter of his heartbeat beneath Aramis’ palm betrays him.

Aramis looks up at him. Finds that Porthos is still watching him. He offers him a tentative smile that Porthos returns. He reaches up, touches Porthos’ cheek. 

“Can I stay?” Aramis asks. 

“Do you need to ask?” Porthos answers. 

But he does. It is a tentative thing, between them, after so much time apart. He knows and sees the space where he fits – but he knows, thinks, he has to move carefully, slowly, back into it. Porthos is so rigid before him. But slowly, Aramis reaches out, touches his hand, and guides it forward – lets Porthos press it to his hip. 

Porthos, too, needs to remember where he fits, too. 

He leans up and catches Porthos’ mouth, kisses him into the quiet of the night.

 

-

 

A strange sort of bliss, to find himself between Porthos’ legs again. Or, not so strange. Like remembering everything at once, overwhelmed with it. Mouth around his cock, memorizing again the hitching sounds of Porthos’ breath, the heave of his chest, the shiver of his hips as Aramis holds him down and works him apart with just the slide of his mouth and tongue, the whisper of teeth against his inner thighs. 

 

-

 

The next morning, the blankets tangled around their legs. Porthos’ soft snoring in his ear a welcome jolt of a reminder. He feels overwhelmed with that, too, the rumbling sound of his breath at his ear, disturbing his sleep but never his heart. 

His hand resting on Porthos’ stomach, tracing an old, faded scar that’s new to Aramis. 

His cheek on his shoulder, sliding down a little to feel his heartbeat. Closing his eyes and letting himself feel this again. 

He had not been unhappy, far away from them. But he is happy here, too. Feels, undoubtedly, that he belongs again. Feeling that belonging, that understanding, that weight – knowing it, without a shadow of a doubt. To finally, after all these years, have that clarity. 

He turns his head, buries his face against Porthos’ neck, feels the scratch of his beard against his mouth, his forehead, the tip of his nose. Smiling to himself. Breathing him in. 

Home again.

 

-

 

Porthos’ hand touches the small of his back. “Hey,” he mumbles, voice sleep-thick. “You’re awake.” 

“Mmm, for some time now,” Aramis confesses, turning to look at Porthos over his shoulder. In his hands, he’s fiddling with Porthos’ old, ratty shirt. It’s dirty, stained and grimy, holes at the elbows, the lace deteriorated. It was likely once white but no longer retains even a semblance of that color. 

Porthos yawns, stretches, rubs at his jaw, and then sits up. Aramis watches him, unsure. Once, a long time ago, it’d have been easy to just lean in and kiss him. Now, he hesitates, despite it all. 

Porthos looks at him. Waits a moment. And then leans in and kisses him, instead. Aramis sighs out, finds himself relaxing, relieved – and kisses him back. 

“We should head out,” Porthos says, drawing back. “Don’t want Athos to wonder where we are.” 

“Mm,” Aramis hums. “Although I like to think d’Artagnan will be later than we’ll be.”

Porthos snorts out a laugh, and his smile blooms – those little dimples, hidden beneath the unkemptness of his beard, his hair. His eyes are bright. 

Porthos draws himself out of bed, wanders around the room, scrubbing at his face, collecting his clothes. They’re all dirty, ratty. He’s scrubbing his hand through his hair next, absently, frowning to himself. Aramis watches him. 

“Wish I had some cleaner water,” Porthos mumbles, surveying the small bowl of water he has on his table, for cleaning himself off. It’s true that he’s covered in grime. There hasn’t been a chance for a proper bath, although the blood is gone from his face. The grim remains. The smell of sex in the air.

Aramis draws himself out of bed, approaches him and offering him his shirt. 

 

-

 

“Would you like me to cut your hair?” Aramis offers, tentatively, a few days later. He’s caught Porthos scratching at his head a few more times since that first morning back in Paris. 

Porthos shrugs. “Dunno.”

Aramis hates that he hesitates – unsure if the refusal is refusal for his hair, or refusal of Aramis specifically offering. He powers through it, though. Reaches out, slides his hand down his back.

“Does it look bad?” Porthos asks. 

“Not at all,” Aramis says, and his voice goes breathless just with the thought of dragging him in closer, kissing him hard, sliding his fingers through the hair. “I like it. The beard, too.”

Porthos laughs, and it touches his eyes. It’s an easier laugh, now. Aramis feels a little more confident, reaching up and tugging gently on his beard. 

“I _really_ like it,” Aramis says again. 

Porthos laughs. Draws him in closer. “Better appreciate it, then, before it’s gone.” 

 

-

 

This, too, is bliss: his body anchored to Porthos, their bodies fitting together as before, arching up as Porthos presses down to him, hands planted on his shoulders. Porthos, leaning in to nuzzle at his shoulder, his neck, breathe out against his neck – the drag and scratch of his teeth and his beard. Aramis lifting his hands to fist into his hair, holding him close, dragging him up to kiss him sloppily as he feels Porthos come inside of him. 

Belonging, again. 

 

-

 

Porthos closes his eyes as Aramis cuts his hair for him, slowly, gently, mindful not to go too quickly or too much at once. 

“You’re good at this,” Porthos says and there is laughter in his voice, a flush to his cheeks.

Aramis hums. “The Abbot, God rest his soul, said that I tended my beard like a rosebush. Can you believe that?” 

“Absolutely,” Porthos says and Aramis makes a vaguely scandalized sound. 

He runs his free hand over Porthos’ cheek, cups his chin and tips his head up. He leans in and kisses the tip of Porthos’ nose, obnoxiously, emboldened. He’s rewarded with Porthos’ laugh – and his insides feel squirmy from it. 

“So I suppose I’ve had practice over the years, is my point,” Aramis scolds. “Be nice.” 

“I’m always nice,” Porthos says, and he grins a moment later – crooked and endearing, his dimples flashing. 

Aramis sets down the knife he’s using to cut Porthos’ hair in favor of kissing him instead. 

 

-

 

Two weeks home in Paris and Porthos is still wearing his ratty old shirt beneath his old coat beneath his old armor. 

 

-

 

“… Here,” Aramis says, quietly, and holds out the parcel. 

Porthos pauses, looks at it and then at Aramis. He lifts an eyebrow. 

Aramis gives him a wobbly little smile and gestures helplessly with the parcel until Porthos takes it. 

“Open it.”

Porthos lifts an eyebrow again and then does as he says, untying it. Beneath is a new shirt for Porthos – a deep blue color with golden trim. Porthos studies it, not lifting his head. Aramis begins to feel nervous after a long silence, uncertain if he’s overstepped somehow. He waits though. Bites at the inside of his cheek. 

When the silence stretches on too long he says, in a rush, “If you don’t like it, I—”

“Thanks,” Porthos interrupts, looking at the shirt for a long moment. His fingers trace absently at the embroidery along the cuffs and collar. “I…” he pauses, sounds a little uncertain. “It’s nice.” 

Aramis breathes out in a rush, nodding his head. “I thought – it’s a good color for you.”

“It’s your favorite color,” Porthos says, and then looks up with a small smile. “I remember.” 

Aramis laughs, feels his cheeks heating up. “I – well. That’s just coincidence.” 

Porthos’ smile turns crooked, boyish. “It’s – I haven’t gotten something new in a long time.” 

Aramis’ heart twists up and he nods his head, blinking a few times and then smiling. “I’m – I’m glad you like it, my friend.” 

 

-

 

The next day, Porthos wears the shirt. Aramis’ heart feels heavy in his throat. 

 

-

 

Porthos moves to pull his clothing off, working at the buckle of his belt, but Aramis shakes his head – lifts his hands to fist into the fabric of Porthos’ new shirt, blue and soft against his fingertips. 

“You should – just fuck me like this,” Aramis whispers out, kisses Porthos hurriedly so he wouldn’t have to see his face, the flush up his neck and to his ears. 

Porthos chuckles into the kiss, though, and Aramis feels honeyed inside, cozy and warm and twisted up at once. Porthos presses down against him, rocks against him, undresses enough to free his cock and takes Aramis apart like that, his fingers twisted up in the fabric of his shirt, the smell of Porthos thick on his tongue, the smell of sex between them. 

 

-

 

Fumbling in the middle of the night, darkness around them, the air chilling. He grabs at a shirt and pulls it on before cuddling up next to Porthos, who snores on. 

 

-

 

The next morning, he realizes he is wearing the blue shirt – and backwards. He’d thought he’d gotten his own in the dark, but clearly his sleep-addled mind hadn’t bothered to discern the difference between fabric weight and feeling. 

Porthos chuffs out a small laugh, face cushioned in the pillow. Aramis fumbles to remove it and Porthos reaches out, curls his fingers around his wrist.

“… You should leave it on,” he tells him.

Aramis laughs out, slightly delirious, and drops his hands – and then drops down into Porthos’ arms. 

 

-

 

Later, too: riding Porthos slowly, rolling his hips, the fabric of the shirt pooling around him – slipping off one shoulder, bunching at his hips where his legs are folded on either side of Porthos’ body. Gasping out in stuttering breaths as Porthos rocks up to meet him, presses in deeper inside of him. 

Cursing out quietly. Tipping his head back, body arching as Porthos sneaks a hand beneath the shirt, curls his hand around his cock, strokes him slowly in time to his thrusts. 

“Fuck,” Aramis sobs out. “I love you.” 

Porthos nodding, arching up to kiss him. Mumbling, “Me too. Fuck, me too.”

Aramis shuddering at that, gripping him tight, sobbing out and feeling overwarm. The coolness of the shirt slides over his back, at his hips. Porthos squeezes his hand around his cock. He is at once too cold and too hot – too close to Porthos and not nearly close enough. 

 

-

 

“Your shirt is a little messy now,” Aramis says, blushing and laughing as he goes to pull it off.

But Porthos reaches out, tugs at the hem so it settles back at his hips. Grins at him – slightly self-conscious. 

He says, “I don’t mind. It’ll smell like you now.”

Aramis laughs, scrubs a hand over his eyes quickly and shakes his head. “It’s – we’re ridiculous, aren’t we?” 

“Maybe,” Porthos confesses. Curls his arms around him and hugs him.

Aramis sighs out, slumps against him, and hugs him back, burying his face against his shoulder and breathing out – feeling, again, that he finally belongs. That he has always belonged here.


End file.
